Let's Hack Reality
by oriflamme
Summary: "He doesn't intend to follow any rules but his own – and if he has to hack reality itself to prove his point, he'll find a way." K/S


First Star Trek fic. Don't own.

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He's apple juice, sweet and crisp and slick on raw lips, the taste in the back of his throat like swallowing sadness and crying for home. He's the sunset from the back of a pickup truck, the metal of a battered, rickety motorcycle pressed against the small of his back as the heat of the day bleeds away into the star-splattered atmosphere. He's chill winter breezes shivering against the back of his neck where his hair falls short. He's the tan from a life under the open skies of Iowa, running wild through the fields like the hellion that he is.

He's a thousand towns visited: the faces blurred, the music wild and breaking and mad, the languages of Earth and other planets choking up over the empty space where his vocal cords rotted for all those years, the world spinning away underneath his feet as he hitchhikes to the next city, the knife in his pocket in memoriam of the horror of Tarsus, for always and forever and for never to be forgotten. He's a quiet day stolen at the library with a stack of books that floods the desk, quantum theory and warp core mechanics and Vulcan love poetry soaking through his fingers and staining his skin black with knowledge that spans the galaxy.

He's the realization that laws should be upheld and lives should be sacred and no one should be alone and that sometimes those ideals are mixed up and shattered and flattened by the drum of whirling feet flashing through the air and returning to earth with a rhythm that's world-ruining. He's bar fights in every club from Iowa to Dhaka to Cairo to Moscow, a laughing dervish of pain given and received and on the house.

He's a little kid in a man's body, staring his mother in the eye and asking why he was born when he was not neededwantedloved in this universe. He's a grown man in a little kid's body in the eyes of a half-man half-Vulcan whose past breaks his heart all over again because in _that _universe he was necessary, to one person, at least. He's blue eyes that should have been hazel, a fuck-up that would have been a hero, a drop out runaway jack of all trades who might have been a captain, an admiral, a legend. He's logic based on heartbreak and terror and hunger and sorrow, intuition born from the scientific method, careful observations, and well-documented experiments in irrationality and idiocy.

He's a friend to a simple country doctor with a passion for hyposprays and a biting wit and a crutch of bourbon as he waits for the phone to ring on Christmas Eve. He's that one cadet who only had one officer on the command-track board vote for him, who has supposedly slept with every eligible female in the Academy, who studies until dawn strangles the night to maintain his devil-may-care persona in class. He's the captain-not-meant-to-be, Starfleet's flagship wildcard, the screw-up somehow transformed into a celebrity. He's Chekov's big brother, Sulu's comrade-in-arms, Uhura's playful frenemy, Scotty's guiding leash, Cupcake's tormentor. He's trying to be friends with a half-man half-Vulcan who hasn't glimpsed that lifetime of memories of victory and defeat and beautiful anguish between them, the person for whom he once upon a time and a universe away gave everything – .

He's a mother's empty, loveless gaze; he's an uncle's surly mood swings and drunken rages; he's a brother's abandoned anchor; he's a car driven over a cliff because it's his father's, it's Frank's, and it's reckless and crazy and freedom. He's nights in the police station, bloody knuckles and blackened eyes and broken ribs and a dermal regenerator at the local hospital with his name _engraved_ on it. He's tearing through space at Warp Eight, playing three dimensional chess without a strategy to call his own, sitting in the command chair with his trachea bruised and his fingers trembling and his heart aching for the man whose emotions he just compromised, because on some level he knows what it's like to lose a parent.

He's compromised and compromiser and a compromise of logic and illogic, calculus and chaos theory.

He's crunching into an apple, savoring the memories of who he is. He's a cocky, jerkass grin shot up at the watching instructors as he stands in the simulator, triumphant. He's hacking into the _Kobayashi Maru _program to plant the bug that'll circumvent the no-win scenario, because he doesn't intend to follow any rules but his own – and if he has to hack reality itself to prove his point, he'll find a way.

He's delirious with a fever Bones couldn't fix, scribbling with permanent marker on walls and the floors and the furniture, trying to crack the code of the Kelvin catastrophe. He's the discovery that the universe traded in his father's life for his own – the decision to take a shortcut back to Earth so that the Kelvin baby could be born on solid ground, the decision that led to the Kelvin's sensors picking up an impossibility in space, the decision which ended in one man's sacrifice for the sake of the child who still came into the universe surrounded by disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. He's the face and voice and smile of a dead man, a ghost driving his only surviving parent into madness simply by existing.

He's sneaking into Bones's medical rotations to annoy him while he's working. He's memorizing the answers to the psychological evaluations that will prove he's fit for duty and not a fucking emotionally irreparable mess on the inside. He's skipping meals because it's another anniversary of some focal point in his life (pick one: arriving on Tarsus, leaving Tarsus, his mother's remarriage, running away from home, returning home, destroying that car, Vulcan dying, the Kelvin's destruction/his birthday/the day karma made the wrong choice). He's attending the special, separate memorial service held for the Kelvin survivors who died during the Narada Incident, surrounded by people who consider themselves his extended family, who hold him and thank him and read aloud all the treasures bequeathed to the Kelvin baby by the dearly departed.

He's eating a candy apple at some long ago festival, the juice and caramel dripping down his chin as he laughs and laughs and chokes on the sweetness as he does. He's haggling over a bowl of borscht in Moscow, the warm soup welcome in his stomach after a few days without enough credits to keep the apartment and still eat. He's a gymnast on the ground and in the air, stretching every night to stay flexible in the Siberian cold. He's stealing a thick book on ancient British literature, reading Chaucer and Shakespeare through the night, before the guilt devours him and he races through the cold midnight to shove the stolen tome back into the startled bookseller's hands, raving apologies before vanishing back into the snow-cradled alleyways.

He's looking up and seeing Spock across the room from him and realizing they're both going to die someday, but Spock's not allowed to die before him – because he's biologically designed to outlive him, and if it were the other way around he'd finally have found the no-win scenario he couldn't outwit.

He's losing three security officers on a diplomatic mission gone horribly awry, turning down Bones's offer of a drink and a mandatory psych eval, and burying the mixed up knot of fury and sorrow and guilt in all that paperwork he'd been saving for just such an occasion. He's next to Spock on the bridge of the Enterprise as they exit warp and emerge amidst the obliterated remnants of the cadet fleet, with only the cold steel of the railing beneath his palms keeping him on his feet when he sees the bodies hanging in the airless void of space. He's having the ridiculous, hysterical thought that the Narada greatly resembles a giant evil pinecone of doom, and wishing with all his might that he hadn't inherited his father's sense of humor. He's a few months later, when he mentions that thought to Bones and the doctor whips out his tricorder and scans him for the brain disorder he's _convinced _he must have to be that completely moronic.

He's wandering Starfleet Academy, with half the cadets gone, the lecture halls empty, and a gaping hole in his gut that recollects Tarsus with a gasp of _home_ thrown in for good measure.

He's the gold of a captain's uniform over black slacks, pressing his palms to the sunrise fabric and wondering how the hell they expect him to be responsible for so many lives when he couldn't even save his own. He's the bright red staining the front of that uniform when a crude bullet ricochets off a wall and bisects Ensign Ileana's jugular, the dying security officer stumbling back into his arms with a red-foamed smile as the ensign realizes her captain is safe. He's green blood, copper blood, Vulcan blood seeping through the gold as he uses it to staunch the stab wound in his first officer's rib cage, experience garnered from those bar fights used to haul the first officer to the roof where Scotty can beam them up to safety and McCoy and (pleasedon'tdiepleasegodnonono) and waiting. He's thanking all the gods he never believed in when the surgery ends and his first officer returns to work.

He's tormented by the same question that plagues everyone on the Enterprise: how does Spock raise _just one eyebrow_?

He's throwing himself off the drill to try to save Sulu; he's holding Chekov as he sobs in the medical bay, recovering from an agony worse than mere words could encompass. He's comforting Uhura after the breakup; he's turning a blind eye to Scotty's illegal still in the heart of the engineering deck. He's meeting a half-man half-Vulcan's gaze and grinning widely with a wink, just to see if he can provoke another quirk of the eyebrow.

He's candidly mentioning to Chekov that Sulu could use some help recalibrating the automated sprinklers in the botany lab. He's blatantly informing Sulu that if he breaks Chekov's heart he'll personally unearth that future Romulan drill, attach it to a mining ship, and push him off into the atmosphere of the nearest planet, before promising to marry them because he's the captain, goddammit, and he actually bothered to get the optional license needed to perform marriage ceremonies. He's commenting on Uhura's amazing tolerance for strong alcohol in front of Scotty and leaving the two to sort that out for themselves. He's crying for a security officer whose dearly beloved died on an away mission. He's wishing Starfleet crewmembers _weren't_ allowed to fraternize, because then Winona and George would never have been married and he wouldn't have been conceived and the Kelvin would have taken the long road home. He's there when his first officer admits that his bondmate died on Vulcan, and that he has decided the most logical course of action would be to form a new bond on his own terms, not by the impersonal will of his family's head.

He's had many more lovers than necessary, far fewer than people believe, none of whom meant much beyond a quick fling and an easy way to stifle his impulsive tendencies. He's gone almost a year without sleeping with anyone, ever since he realized he's gone entirely off women _and _men and only has eyes for the one person who'd never return his highly illogical feelings. He's informing McCoy of this fact, without mentioning the object of his bizarrely single-minded affection, and is enduring yet another psych eval and brain scan because a healthy twenty-six year old whose libido suddenly disappears is clearly suffering from some serious trauma.

He's unable to believe Bones never noticed that before.

He's putting his fist through the wall, observing the blood pulsing from the broken skin of his knuckles as he waits for the cold fury to subside. He's destroying the rec room equipment in an effort to block out the memories of yet another mission gone wrong. He's running training scenarios on a schedule known only to himself, determined to ensure that his precious crew never falls prey to the pointless mistakes that have killed others.

He's receiving the notice that _We regret to inform you that Ms. Winona Kirk has –_

He's hugging McCoy, unable to believe he never noticed he loved him before.

He's losing at poker to Chekov, chatting in fluid Russian over vodka.

He's fencing with Sulu, only half-serious as they shout out random attack names to the amusement of onlookers.

He's swearing in pre-Surakian Vulcan in front of Uhura, just to see the communications officer's eyes bulge.

He's crawling through the engines with Scotty, hunting for the source of the recent malfunction and ending up with the contents of the distillery soaking everyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.

He's accidentally kissing Spock, though he doesn't know it at the time.

He's accidentally-on-purpose kissing him, terrified that he's ruining everything because that's just what he does – he's the mistake, the decision, the karmic imbalance, the screw-up, the runaway, the madman, the hitchhiker, the annoyance, the survivor-who-shouldn't-have-been.

He's the Starfleet captain who marries his first officer and becomes the most decorated officer in the fleet by the end of the five year mission and visits New Vulcan to see the other half-man half-Vulcan from a universe away. He's sitting in silence with him until a single tear runs down a lined face and they go their separate ways, with a promise to meet again.

He's remembering everything he has been and is and forever shall be.

He's eating an apple, tears streaming down his face, and smiling through his sobs when his friendbrotherloverSpock asks what is the matter and how can he help.

He's tasting sadness and loss and choking and madness, laughter and amazement and triumph and _home_.

He's boldly going where no one has gone before, on the bridge of the Enterprise with his crew around his, the tips of his fingers pressed against his first officer's, beaming as his heart swells and the starlight blurs and the universe unfolds before him.

He's promising he'll balance those tilted scales of life and death with this strange hope, strong and true and loved at last.

He is captain. He is protector. He is t'hy'la.

He is James T. Kirk.


End file.
